Fighting and Moodswings
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: //MurphConn// What begins as a good day for Connor became a horrible day when the first blow landed. Bad tends to get worse, but it can never be too bad as long as he has Murphy to make him feel better //slash, twincest. M for sex and language.


Nicholas: Challenge of Becki. Wanted to make her feel better because she had a bad day, so I finished it as soon as I could. I'm very proud of this...it makes me smile.

Disclaimer: I hereby disclaim! DISCLAIM!

Rating: M...for sex...violence...language...yumminess!!

* * *

Sometimes the sun had to be his least favorite thing. When it wakes him in the morning and makes him forsake that lovely dreamland he always longs to escape to, Connor just sort of wishes they'd invested in something important (like curtains) when they'd first moved in. Still, sometimes the sun was a good thing—but only sometimes and it usually didn't last long. For instance, when Connor woke up on a particular morning that followed a particular night spent with his dark-haired, pale-skinned twin, the sun was more than welcome to reveal that heavenly image lying next to him.

Connor wrapped his arms around Murphy's sleeping form and wondered what he did to deserve such a handsome, lovely creature to spend all of his days and nights with. Nuzzling his face into the other's shoulder, he took in that oh so familiar scent once more and let the drug-like aroma fill his brain. Nothing like cigarettes, alcohol and Murphy to start off the day. "G'mornin'," he muttered delicately into his lover's ear.

"It en't mornin' 'til I can open me eyes," he replied stubbornly. "Now shush."

"Need yer beauty sleep, dear?"

Murphy absolutely hated the sun—proof of that could be seen in the pale, vampire-like tone of his skin—unlike Connor's undecided "could like it, could not." If it were his choice, he'd stay at home all the time and laze around, with cardboard up on the windows so that the infernal day-star wouldn't intrude on his night-life. He would hide away in a basement somewhere and of course take Connor with him for amusement and such and such. The only flaw in his plan was that he loved Connor's sun-kissed flesh too much to let it fade in the darkness.

"No, I need sleep before I can consider the rest beauty sleep," he groaned. A little moan escaped his throat when he felt his brother's hand slide up his thigh to his ass. "And ya seemed damned-set on keepin' me awake last night."

"Ye weren't complainin' at the time, so don' give me shite."

With Murphy's back against his chest, Connor had a great advantage of having access to almost every sensitive part of his twin's body. So, sneakily, he ran his other hand down the flat of his love's chest and stroked the inside of his leg with a soft, petting motion.

"Don't…" Murphy sighed half-heartedly. He gripped his brother's arm, but didn't push him away from that spot that was currently receiving attention. "God damn it, Conn. It's too early."

"O, 'tis not." Digging his nails slightly into that tantalizing muscle, Connor mimicked the other's resulting whine and placed a rough, almost biting kiss on his shoulder. "Besides, we have ta get up fer work anyway. Remember what yer fuckin' boss said."  
"O, he just said that ta scare ya," Murphy assured him, forcing his way out of bed. "Norman knows I'm too much of an asset ta toss me out now."

"Yeah, but I'm just a bartender, so I'm not an asset, thus I'll get thrown on me ass if I'm late." Connor got himself dressed as he stood in mid-yawn. "An' ya realize that the only reason I have my job is 'cause ya stuck yer fuckin' neck out fer me, so if I turn out to be worthless, it'll reflect on ye."

"Yer not worthless, Conn."

As his brother was bent over searching for his shirt, Connor reached over and pinched his left ass cheek playfully. "I don' have skills like ye."

Murphy turned abruptly and jumped on him, pushing him back down on the crying mattress and pinning him there. A snarl graced his face in a way that Connor found absolutely enthralling and passionate. "Yer testin' me, love. I thought ya didn't want us ta be late."

"I don't really want us ta go at all," he stated flatly, "I hate it when ya fight. Yer too pretty ta get hit in the face every day."

"O thanks fer yer confidence in me. I'll have ya know that I don't get hit in the face _every_ day. Just most o' the time." He snickered lithely at the way Connor glared at him. He knew how his brother had an over-protective obsession over him, but some things he just couldn't help doing, even despite what Connor may have said. "Don't worry about it, love. If I ever thought I was in any danger, ya know I would throw the fight, right?"

"Would ya be able ta?"

"O' course. I'm completely in control."

* * *

That must have been a lie. Connor took to pondering it all day as they worked at that stupid run-down bar with the fight ring in the middle and he couldn't believe that Murphy thought he was in control. He should see the look he gets on his face when he starts a fight and how it doesn't go away until his opponent is unconscious. It's like taking all of the fire and anger and passion that is Murphy and putting all at once into one outlet. That's what his fighting is and it scared Connor more than he was comfortable being scared because he was well aware of his twin's addiction. He feared that either one day his need to come to blows would kill him or he'd kill someone. Whatever way, it wasn't something Connor wanted to experience. So he watched carefully as Murphy got stoked for this particular fight—there was something special about it, but neither twin could really remember what at the time.

Once a fight got started in this place, no one paid any further attention to their drinks and what not because everyone wanted to see Murphy's fluid fighting style—especially Connor, who though he hated the idea of it, found his twin's violent side just on the edge of breathtaking. And so it went as it usually did with Murphy pulling off his T-shirt and stepping into the ring (the tattoo of his boss's name on his chest just to show who's side he was on) and the regulars gave him the usual praise for his greatness.

The first punch that landed caught Murphy square in the jaw and knocked him to the floor without much warning at all. Connor's breath turned solid in his throat and stayed there for a prolonged moment. Once the dark-haired man returned to his feet and Connor could both breathe and move once more, he felt an angered, nauseous feeling in his stomach and it made him look away from the fight at long last and continue cleaning up the fucking bar while all the other fucking shmucks cheered on this violent shit that was going to get someone killed. He didn't look up again the entire night.

By midnight, the end of their grueling day at work—more grueling for Murphy, of course—Connor was waiting outside the "back room" for his brother to finish up (maybe get them a paycheck or something). By back room, I mean the one place in the entire place that was more secure than a casino. It was sound proof, the walls and windows were bullet proof, and only one person knew the access code to the lock and he happened to be inside with Murphy. So as much as Connor didn't like the idea of leaving his twin alone in that room, he saw the necessity and stuck through it. Besides, if Norman pulled any shit, he would know. He took a quick inventory of Murphy's visible injuries before they'd been separated.

Doors can be slammed open, and it tends to be proven time and time again, like now for instance when the door was thrown open. Murphy tumbled out of the room, his back hitting the wall on the opposite side of the hall. "Hey, fuck ya, man!" he shouted. "I don't need ta take that shite from some ratfuck, lowlife boxing promoter."

Taken aback, Connor glanced in the doorway to see that snake Norman backed up by two bigger-than-normal bodyguards standing with a threatening aura. "Where the fuck else do you think you're going to find work this good, Mick?" Norman snapped.

It was a given that Murphy would take offense to that, but before Connor could hold him back, he stepped up to give that prick a taste of the knuckles he seemed to prize so much. "Ya mother—." Almost immediately, he was shoved back to the wall, both large men holding him there by tight grips on his hair, arms and neck.

"Hey get the fuck off o' him!" Connor tried to take advantage of their distraction and go after Norman himself—still confused but willing to back up his twin. The second he moved, though (and this was because he wasn't expecting this) there was a very intimidating extension to Norman's skinny arm. A gun, and Connor didn't care what kind, was pointing straight at his jaw.

"Hey wait—" Murphy thrashed wildly against those silent, but deadly bouncers but it did no good. It didn't take him long to forgo that venture, because he knew he needed to be quick in remedying this for his twin's sake. "Waitaminute, man! P-put the fuckin' gun down." The larger of his captors—and _that_ was saying something—happened to have to grip in his hair and used it to slam his head back into the wall. "O c'mon, Norman…fuck! The last thing you need is a dead body here, right?"

"Really? You know, Murphy, I like that tone of voice from you," Norman stated firmly. The small man that he was held a loud, commanding tone. "It's just so…I don't know, pacifying to hear it. Lets me know that you remember just who is in charge here. Now…I need your brother to sit his ass down, but I forgot his name. Want to remind me?"

The gun inched ever so much closer to the blond and Murphy immediately let out an indignant squawk in protest. "Connor, just sit down!" he snapped, the hand on his neck getting a bit too tight.

Rather than sit, Connor more of fell down to his knees eyes flickering from the gun to his brother back to his gun, back to his brother. He didn't like where this was going and he really didn't like where this was going and he very much definitely did not like where this was going. "Murphy…" he whispered, but that was met with the gun going smack across his face.

"Shit!" Murphy shouted, once more twisting and writhing against the restraining grasps pinning him to the wall. "Let'im be, Norman!"

"No! You don't tell me what to do, shit head. Remember that." Norman was glaring now, with narrow eyes and angry scowling lips. "Murphy, you are a tool. You fight to make end's meat for _me_, and then _you_ sit on the floor by the table and beg, hoping I'll toss you some. Don't forget that fuck head." He snapped his fingers and both bouncers pulled the squirming Irishman off of his feet and pulled him along out the door at the end of the hall. Norman pulled Connor up by his shirt collar. The door led outside.

Once more, a door slammed open resulting in an Irishman or two stumbling through. Connor grumbled angrily, supporting his twin's heavy form on his shoulder. "I hate my life," Murphy kept muttering, "I hate my life."

"O shut up, will ya. Yer makin' me head hurt worse." Despite his rough words, Connor was careful in leading his brother to the bed and sitting him down gently. Then he kneeled down, took 

Murphy's chin in his hand and checked his face. "Ya look like ya got beat with a hammer," he commented, worriedly.

"Multiply that by four an' that's about how I feel right now."

"An' that's my fault somehow, right? 'Cause I so enjoy the fact that ya work fer that cock suckin', motherless son of a shit." Standing, he went to his bed and immediately lay down on his stomach. He was utterly spent and to pissed off that he ached from it. "Didn't I mention that this mornin'?"

"Aye, well this mornin' ya were more smiley an' cuddly an' happy." Murphy rubbed a bruise on his arms in hopes that it wouldn't get worse before he stood and went to his brother. "Where'd that go, huh?"

"I'm moody." It was barely a mutter.

"Ah, yer PMS-ing, then?"

Connor propped himself up on his elbows and gave his brother a nasty look. "If PMS means Putting up with Murphy's Shit, then yes I am."

"Well of course, what else would I mean?"

Murphy was relieved that Norman and his goons hadn't beat him too bad (though the excuse for that was a heartless statement something like "You need to be able to lift your fists for the next fight"). He was even more relieved that they didn't go all out on Connor either. In the state of his gratification, he was more than happy to climb onto his brother and just press against him, exultant that they were together. "They didn't hurt ya bad, did they?"

"No," Connor grunted, the weight on his back just slightly unwelcome. "I think I gotta a loose tooth, tho'."

"Want me ta check that out fer ya?" Along with the offer, Murphy adjusted to reach his head over the other's shoulder to kiss him, using his tongue to look for that loose tooth Connor claimed that he had. Two of his fingers picked and play with Connor's spikes of blond hair.

The kiss retained silent passion—being strong and tight and lingering—except for the occasional wet slurp or smack of lips on lips and tongue on tongue. The one foreign to Connor's mouth (tongue, that is), lashed across that sore tooth he'd prophesized about resulting in a high-pitched hiss of air making its way to brush against the other's teeth. Murphy pulled his twin's wrists up to press them down on either side of the pillow and he used that grasp to anchor himself and push the upped half of his body up, breaking the kiss and Connor' attention span.

He looked down at those true-blue eyes and saw that they were not only barely open but making no attempt to look back. With a smile gracing his face, he bent his back to press a little peck on the nape of the other's neck. "I feel yer skin gettin' hotter," he commented, pressing his hips downward, feeling Connor push back up. "Perhaps a shirt's becomin' a bit superfluous?"

"I'd say so," was the quiet, shy reply.

So Murphy dragged his hands up from his twin's wrists along the shoulders, down his sides and finally to the hem of that black T-shirt to wrench it up along Connor's torso until it finally came off, letting a waft of cool air stroke the tanned, bare flesh. The dark-haired sibling let himself lean back down onto the other while Connor was propping himself up on his elbows.

"Up," he said, and in one, synced movement, he had pulled them both upright so that Connor had no option but to sit on his lap and rest his back against him. Murphy's calloused but gentle hands dragged along his lover's abdomen to linger just below the naval. "Guide my hands," he suggested, tone 

holding something like request and command in one bundle, "Remind me, where do you like to be touched?"

With a heavy, hesitant and lust-laced sigh, Connor covered his brother's hands with his. It took a moment of consideration and gathering of his wits to move them, but after that moment was freely given, he dragged the hand bearing aéquitas slowly up his stomach, along that crevice below his sternum and then up. The very fact that it was Murphy's touch made it a sensual caress all the way up his chest to his throat then along his jaw, where the pale hand then drew two fingers the length of that protruding bone.

Murphy had Connor trapped so flush against him that their feet were sitting in a row behind them—Murphy's together in between Connor's. As a result of this, every available surface on his front side pressed against the other, and Connor's knees were kept apart making it essential that Murphy be there to keep him from falling back. "The other hand?" he inquired carefully, breathing his words against his twin's blushing skin.

Another faltering moment arose in the blond's mind. This time it was longer and took more consideration, until Murphy made the first move. He slid just a half inch downward before Connor got the hint—once he did, of course things went faster from there. Veritas directed Murphy's left hand along that fine trail of hair over the taut, worn-out fabric of his jeans and it was then that Murphy took control and added his own pressure and grip making Connor squirm just slightly.

With a hiss to express their accord, both twins straightened their backs simultaneously. Murphy took to undoing his love's jeans and Connor reached back, behind him, to tug at his brother's shirt—pulling it over both of their heads. More warmth, more contact of skin on skin, caused an eerily mirrored shiver to quake through them both. Zealously, they pressed their lips together, a pale hand cupping the tanned jaw; the finger with the word aéquitas stroked at the stubble there gently, feeling that powerful jawbone flex as Connor's mouth opened in welcome to his sibling's. A moan as another hand slipped into his pants met a mimic immediately.

"Oh fuck, yeah," Connor murmured, his lips still in contact with the others. Supple and tender, the touch and stroke of Murphy's fingers had his eyes closed, an avalanche of heat rolling over his face ten times hotter than before. "Ah…s'good, Murph…so…"

Murphy's secondary struggle (only preceded by the necessity of keeping his brother feeling good) was that he could barely reach the button of his own jeans to unfasten it. Delicately, he put just enough pressure on Connor's tail bone to make him move so that he did it unconsciously, and finally he could dislodge the buttons from his Levi's. "Ya like that?" Dipping his head down, he forsook his twin's mouth for that deliciously tantalizing neck.

"Hmm, aye," came the answer on a gasped lungful of air. "Need…more o' ya…" His next pant squeaked out like a whine. "Please…"

"I can do that."

To rid Connor of his jeans, Murphy had pushed him forward to rest on his elbows once more and then slipped the clothes off with no fuss. With the left hand (bless Murphy's left hand, God) back to stroking Connor's length while the right slithered up a shoulder, then neck and along the mouth so that the fingers could dillydally along behind lips over tongue. The blond lapped at those stray digits, and then at feeling a row of kisses trail down his spine, he added a bit of suction, wetting them and putting his attention on them because even the small part they were, they were Murphy.

"I want ta be inside o' ye," that was Murphy's voice pounding against the blond's ear drums.

Connor couldn't help it: he opened his mouth to moan at that sex-ridden slur and consequently dropped Murphy's fingers. No matter, as the pale twin took them back, drew a damp line along the bumps of his spine, exciting quivers from that tanned back. "O, God, Murph…ya don' like ta leave much ta the imagination."

"Whatever do ya mean, pretty?"

Aéquitas tapped those last three vertebrae and slid down that cleft, teasing its way into that tight opening there. Murphy deserted his brother's arousal tried to push his own jeans down one handed—listening to Connor's hitch and moan making him harder. Tense muscles started to loosen, and just when they did another fingered joined his tattooed friend to disappear into Connor.

"Jesus, Murph…need ya now…seriously… … … fuckin' now!"

It was little more than a split second after that where Murphy stole his hand back to get his jeans down so that he could once more press his chest against his twin's back and make his slow, careful and fashionably late entrance. Connor's reaction was a stunning, enthralling vision—as it always is. The way he dropped his head into the pillow and locked his big hands into his own light hair (pulling tightly with the pressure in his gut), face scrunched, teeth grit to contain a vicious beast of a cry within comprehensive limits. He pushed back as Murphy pushed forward until there was no possible way it could get any deeper and then they both hesitated.

A tingling sensation danced up Murphy's spine to poke and prattle about his skull so that the majority of his focus up and disappeared making his aim more singular. He wrapped an arm around his twin's waist and a hand around his dick; after a long, slow withdraw accompanied by a long, drawn out caress, he thrust back in, reversing the stroke.

The next one made Connor's brain spin like a top and then faster with the next and even faster with the next. His legs were clenching by the fourth and then he just forfeited counting because it seemed absurd. Everything was getting hypersensitive very quickly and he feared that it would all be over too soon, so he tried to focus on the feeling, cling to it, make it last. Trap that fire that Murphy was flaring in his body so that they could stay like this forever. In love, making love on into fucking eternity. Fortunately or unfortunately, Murphy's pace kept quickening and intensifying, getting rougher and harsher, but always retaining that gentle stroking so as to reassure the one on the receiving end.

As much as he tried to meet those driving penetrations, the force of it made his entire body go sharply forward. "Fuck yes," he hissed into that blanket beneath him, "Fuck _yes_!"

* * *

They both lay on their stomachs, completely nude and completely content for the time being, the telltale tingles still pulsing through their veins and that interesting dampness in the sheet…well that had to be ignored for now. I think it would be safe to say, having begun with their feelings for the sun, the MacManus twins have a mutual love of the moon—whether she graces the night or not. They were safe under the blind, white eyes of Diana, though her chaste ways were hardly their practice. With the comfort of the night still on them, they embraced with quivering bodies, holding on tight should anything try to pry them apart be it hell or high water.

"I love you," they muttered in unison, the words of praise saved just for each other.

At last they faced each other, seeing the bruises caused by the festivities of earlier that night and now Connor showered his twin's face with kisses, intent on never letting that façade be bruised ever again. "Don't…fight anymore…okay?" he got out between each of symbol of affection. "I can't…stand it…when…ya fight." Just the memory of before with Norman made him cringe.

Murphy sighed and made his reply immediately. "We gotta find new jobs."

"I don' care." This time, Connor put a lingering pressure of his lips on the other's forehead. "We can find new jobs. We can move outta here so that that fuck won't find us…just leave tamorrow."

Smiling, the pale twin let a proud laugh find its way into the conversation. "Again, I love you. Let's leave then. We don't got that much shit too take with us and it won't be hard to slip out unseen."

"Really?"

"Aye…" As much as Murphy really didn't want to give up that job—he loved fighting too much—tonight made him certain that he couldn't keep it, no matter what. "I don' want them hurtin' ya, Conn. That mother fucker can push me around, but I won't let him fuck with ye." "Fuckin' hero," he muttered.

"Only if ya want me ta be."

Connor considered for a moment the upside of having his own hero. But then he chose to consider that he needed to be a hero to his twin instead. That made him determined. They were leaving and that was that because if they stayed in that job, Connor would be stuck in a position underneath his brother and then he wouldn't be able to be the hero…ever. "When we get a new place, can I be on top?"


End file.
